On the Losing Side
by Matchbox Dragon
Summary: Reichenbach one-shot, somewhat AU, not slash. A look at Sherlock's thoughts after Moriarty shot himself, AU in that he doesn't have a plan for faking his death in this version so his angst is genuine... (not a death-fic)


_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, its characters, settings etc. all of which belong to BBC / Steve Moffat & Mark Gatiss and were originally created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle._

A/N: Please note that this is an AU in that it totally disregards a lot of on-screen evidence. It's not meant as a Reichenbach theory, but more a what-if and a character study.

* * *

On the Losing Side

_**As long as I'm alive you can save your friends, you've got a way out.  
Well, good luck with that.**_

_** - BANG - **_

NO...

No no no no, this wasn't supposed to happen… why didn't he see that coming? How could he have miscalculated? And so badly?

This was… no…NO! He couldn't believe he had read the whole situation so wrong! He'd talked it over with Molly, the only person in the world he could think out loud to about the idea of Moriarty's plan culminating in Sherlock's demise. (John wouldn't have been able to handle it; he would have just argued back and tried to find a way out of it) Molly had listened carefully to all the facts, started to cry quietly and then agreed with him that his theory was most likely correct.

And so he'd planned this encounter, set up a clever confrontation… thought he'd actually been ahead of the psychopath, knew what his game was (of _course_ he'd known the computer code was fake) and could use that knowledge to outwit him and –

But now, stupid, _stupid_ … now he was realising how wrong he was, how badly he'd misjudged it all. How could he have imagined that Moriarty would go so far as to kill himself to spite Sherlock? Should he have seen that coming? Could he have?

Did that even matter anymore? The fact that he was wrong... he was always right... except this time, when it mattered the most.

_**Will caring about them help save them?**_

In this case, yes. Oh, the bitter irony.

Without Moriarty there was no other option left to him. He'd chided both John and the Woman about letting their hearts rule their heads – and yet here he was. About to jump off a building to save the lives of his friends for no good logical reason. Who would have imagined this? Stupid, _stupid_ sentiment.

What choice did he have? He couldn't let John be killed. Not the only person he'd ever called a friend – and out loud too, which he once would have thought was impossible.

There was no other choice.

_**Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.**_

Yes, that's where he was now. The losing side. Whatever he did now, he would lose. Lose himself or lose John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.

No winners today, only losers.

Suddenly his mind was absolutely clear. No panic, no uncertainty, no confusion.

Slowly, deliberately, he stepped up onto the ledge at the edge of the roof. A moment later a taxi came into view on the street below, and a quick calculation of travel time to and from Baker Street led him to the conclusion that it was most likely John returning from the wild goose chase Moriarty had sent him on. He hit number 1 on his speed dial.

_**I don't have friends.**_

Spun him that lie about being a fake. Let him think that. Let them think anything other than realising that Sherlock Holmes was on the losing side. That he'd finally fallen prey to his oldest enemy – sentiment. Even if he wasn't going to be around for it, his pride couldn't stand the thought of anyone _knowing that he was so weak.._.

But he _was_ weak. And for once in his life, the tears were genuine.

No, this wasn't an act, no manipulation, no clever plan up his sleeve…

This was it.

_**Goodbye, John.**_

It was so similar to what almost happened at the pool. The only difference was, that time he and John were in it together – and John understood what he was up to, and agreed.

This time, John would never understand.

He pitched forward …

... over the edge ...

… fell ...

… and didn't land.

Or at least, not like he was expecting to.

Perhaps it would be a cliché (dull, he hated clichés) to say that it all happened so fast he couldn't keep track of what was going on around him but that was exactly what occurred. Apparently he landed on something other than the pavement – softer, obviously, for a start – and was injected with some sort of fast-acting paralytic, evidently to give the impression of being dead.

His last conscious thought was that his brother had clearly out-thought both him _and_ Moriarty…

* * *

_**I worry about him. Constantly.**_

In the Diogenes Club the next day, Mycroft put down the newspaper with the headline about his brother's 'death' and steepled his fingers, much like Sherlock's favourite thinking pose, as he contemplated their next move. His brother was recovering well but refusing to talk to him. The biggest question would be whether or not Sherlock would ever forgive him for interfering, taking the chance that saving his life would ruin the illusion for Moriarty's lackeys and place his friends in danger once more.

Of course, Sherlock would never forgive his brother for working out Moriarty's plan correctly and making his own contingencies. He would never be able to accept the idea that he had been _wrong_ and Mycroft had been _right_.

But at least he was alive. Whether or not Sherlock was prepared to admit it, that was better than being wrong _and_ dead.

_**Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.**_

He couldn't say he truly understood what John Watson meant to his brother – no more than Sherlock himself understood it, most likely. But Mycroft did at least have the advantage of perspective, and he had been able to tell long ago that his brother's _caring_ for his friend was going to lead to something like this. Because while Sherlock's legendary stubbornness would probably withstand almost any form of torture – apart from enforced boredom, perhaps – he was utterly defenceless against someone threatening those he cared about. Perhaps it was because this whole 'friendship' business was so new to him that his fledgling emotions couldn't deal with anything going wrong?

But that was purely academic at that point, thought Mycroft with a sigh. He stood up, ignored the pitying looks from the other members of the Club and walked out, taking his phone out of his pocket to start to make plans in earnest. The sooner Moriarty's spiderweb was exterminated, the sooner his brother could get back to his normal life – if it could ever be called 'normal' – and perhaps they could all put this episode behind them.

And maybe, _maybe _Sherlock might start to consider forgiving him for saving his life.

He could always hope.

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A/N: As I said, this is not my Reichenbach theory in any way. I just wanted to explore the question of whether Sherlock would have done it if it was for real and he didn't know he had a chance of surviving - but without over-sentimentalising him, I hope?


End file.
